


THE CODE: The Game Of Lives

by Introverted_Survivalist



Category: Trolls (2016), Trolls World Tour (2020), Trolls: The Beat Goes On (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Brainwashing, F/M, I'm Bad At Tagging, Metahumans, Mutant Powers, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Temporary Character Death, Video & Computer Games, Virtual Reality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24421636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Introverted_Survivalist/pseuds/Introverted_Survivalist
Summary: It’s 2093. Six years ago, a hacker group managed to infiltrate into the Chromozone Security Systems—the largest governing facility in the US. They let master hackers criminals out from their containment cells, began hiring illegal master gamers to play for their dirty pickpocketing games, started enslaving people to work under their own bidding. Basically, the world was fucked up.Since then, the hackers started kidnapping master gamers and coders of the youngest generation—to put it into other words,ourgeneration. They take them to their organization and every day, they try to hack every governing facility and security system that exists by manipulating their brains and messing with their heads or something. Their main priority is control over the world, and the rebellion I work for stands against those bastards. You could basically call it sanctuary, or a refuge, for unlucky kids like me.My name is Subject A093. Others call me Branch. I was created in an illegal lab back in Detroit in 2077. I’ve lived fifteen shitty years until now, and I'm a master gamer.A sci-fi/fantasy fanfiction. Branch-centric. Human AU.
Relationships: Branch & Poppy (Trolls), Branch/Poppy (Trolls), Branch/Queen Poppy (Trolls)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	THE CODE: The Game Of Lives

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! I've been writing this story for another fandom, but I've lost interest in it for now. So I decided to switch up the names and continue with the first chapter! The title might change into something 'fancier', I don't know. Anyways, enjoy the first chappie!

Okay, so where do we start? Well, I guess we’ll start from the beginning—my name is Subject A093. Others call me Branch. I was created in an illegal lab back in Detroit in 2077, and I’ve lived fifteen years until now. So far, life has been pretty crazy.

I sit on an empty oil barrel waiting for Poppy and Guy—they’re my best friends, and we’ve known one another from the day I first joined the rebellion. We’re the Terrible Trio, the Trifecta to Dissect-ya, the Burn-and-Pillage-y Trilogy. Our nicknames didn’t make us many friends—we’ve been branded cocky by some, idiots by others—but we like being together, so we don’t really give a fuck about what they think.

I squeeze my earcuff—a small piece of metal attached to my right earlobe—and my Netscreen and tech keyboard flash on before me, hovering in midair. The screen shows that Guy is already online, and Poppy saying that she’ll be back in a few minutes. I start typing, and my fingers dance across the keys.

**the_survivor_77:** _Hey, Guy. Quit watching your sappy soap operas and talk to me. Where the hell are you?_

Guy’s reply is almost instant, as if he were typing like a secretary with three cups of coffee.

**diamonds_4ever:** _Wow. What are you, my number one fan? Want more printed photos of me to tape onto your pillow so you can smooch ‘em at night? I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes, so be patient. I’m takin’ a shower—I smell like pits._

 **the_survivor_77:** _Seriously? Guy, you’re disgusting._

 **diamonds_4ever:** _Look at the mirror before you say anything, Branch._

 **the_survivor_77:** _Whatever. Go scrub your nasty pits._

 **diamonds_4ever:** _I said I smell like them, not—ugh, nevermind. I’m going._

The small blue circle which indicates that Guy is online disappears with a blink of an eye. Seconds later, Poppy is back.

**cottoncandy123:** _Branch! Sorry I’m late—I fell asleep._

 **the_survivor_77:** _At least you’re now awake. Hurry, I feel lonely without you._

 **cottoncandy123:** _I miss you too—on my way._

Guy is fifteen, Poppy is also fifteen, just like I am. Guy used to work for the rebellion since he was twelve—he says, back then, they put the younger kids on cleaning duty.

Alright, so you guys must be super confused about what the _heck_ is happening. Here’s how the story goes:

It’s 2093. Six years ago, a hacker group managed to infiltrate into the Chromozone Security Systems—the largest governing facility in the US. They let master hackers criminals out from their containment cells, began hiring illegal master gamers to play for their dirty pickpocketing games, started enslaving people to work under their own bidding. Basically, the world was fucked up.

Since then, the hackers started kidnapping master gamers and coders of the youngest generation—to put it into other words, _our_ generation. They take them to their organization and every day, they try to hack every governing facility and security system that exists by manipulating their brains and messing with their heads or something. Their main priority is control over the world, and the rebellion I work for stands against those bastards. You could basically call it sanctuary, or a refuge, for unlucky kids like me.

What am I? I’m a level ninety-seven ranking master gamer. Hey, don’t laugh—it’s true, you know, I’m not lying. Why do you think those hackers are after me?

Poppy is a level ninety-six ranking master coder, Guy is a level ninety-five ranking master junior gamer in training. And although it’s hard to actually believe, I’m not kidding. Go and laugh if you want, Branch Woods is actually a genius, a geek, and a nerd.

Being a master gamer is different from wherever you’re from, because it’s not just sitting in front of your computer pressing you ‘w.a.s.d’s, playing Fortnite hamming down chips. Where I live at, you do everything yourself—and by everything, I mean every single action you take. We are part of the game. You wield your own weapons, you slay your own enemies, you scavenge for the things you need with your bare hands, no matter how freezing or scorching hot you are. And if you bleed to death on the battlefield, then so be it.

You need to be quick, be stealthy. You need to be mentally strong. You need to be the best of the best. Not does the job only require physical strength, but you need to be intelligent—know how to plan your strategies, know what to do in order not to be killed throughout your fight. And there’s no funeral if you fail—you blink right out of existence, and the only version of you left in the world is memories of others who actually remember you until they die out too. It’s pretty scary, in my opinion.

In the distance, I can see Poppy sprinting towards meme in her everyday-blue-sundress, her bubblegum-pink hair tied above her head into a ponytail with a scrunchie. She looks out of breath, but fine.

“Hey.” She greets me with a tired smile, and plops down on the oil barrel beside me. “You look happy today.”

“Do I?” I inquire. I’m not really smiling, that’s for sure. But Poppy has the ability to read me like a book. “Well, I guess I’m happy then.”

“Where’s Guy?” She asks, putting on that big smile of hers. It was her thing; her smile, really. Like fish and water. Needle and thread. Guy and his fucking drama.

“He’s taking a shower. Scrubbing his pits.” I snicker. Poppy makes an over exaggerated face at me.

“Too much info, Branch.” She mutters, looking away. She looks rather pretty with the sunlight shining over her features, and it makes me wonder how I never noticed.

So, you’re all probably asking at this point, ‘who is this girl?’ I’ll tell you about Poppy, the most I know so far.

Poppy Kingsley is another friend I made back in Ohio. She was orphaned at the time, had nobody to look after her, had done something terrible, and was on the run—just like I had been. 

She’s never told us what exactly she’d done wrong. And whenever I try to extract the truth from her, she shuts me out. Poppy’s really nice, really sweet, and funny—but she snaps when she feels like it, and it’s never pretty when she does.

I never talk about what bad things I’ve done, and thankfully, nobody ever asks. It’s like this valid excuse I can exploit to avert ever-so-tricky and difficult questions.

I was ten at the time. After my creator, a cruel, insane bitch we used to call Chef, accidentally left the cage door open, I fought like hell to escape those lab chambers. And the fight was actually worth it, because that night, I ran away, as far as I could from that shitty place.

I slept on streets and in alleyways, trying not to freeze my ass off while getting some shuteye, looking for scraps of food or at least a single burnt or greasy french fry leftover in the garbage bin behind McDonalds. And while I was there in my worn test subject suit, sitting the corner after a failed scavenger hunt, she walked up to me and tossed me a Twinkie.

_“You look like shit.”_

The four words she had decided to say out loud had immediately made me happier than I had ever been.

And now, here we are.

“How’s your day been?”

“My day? Well, better now that you’re here.”

“Aw, that’s sweet, Branch.”

“Thanks.”

A long silence ensues, and I’m suddenly lost for words. I hear my foot tapping against the rock hard ground almost on its own accord, jagged cracks running over the surface like lightning bolts, some stray grass and seedlings sprouting from the narrow spaces—a simple, but strong representation of actual hope. Something I believe that is worth holding onto.

Poppy snaps me out of my distant thoughts. “Ready to start the day?”

“Well, uh, I guess.”

“You guess?”

Don’t get me wrong, alright? I love my job. The sensation I feel when I’m running around the battlefield and scorching deserts, dodging bullets and launcher grenades? It’s so overwhelming and filled with ecstasy that it makes pumps me with adrenaline and emotions I just cannot put to words. It’s just the same old courses I go through everyday, and I feel like the games could use a change—there was at least that tinge of unpredictability. You never know someone might jump at you or pull a gun against your temple—that’s the sheer fun of it all, and I don’t care how psychopathic it sounds. It’s just the way it is.

There are over a million games on the Chromozone Network. We play them and win, we earn our profit. One of the most popular ones is called _Reaper’s Blood Battle_ —pays high, plays high. Only bad side of it is how dangerous the game actually is. You risk your own life playing it, other players swing their axes and shoot bullets without mercy. And they don’t care who they kill, they never do. It’s like a fucked-up-game of Russian Roulette.

When it comes to _Reaper’s Blood Battle_ , Guy gets completely out of hand. He absolutely loves the game, and he does anything to win—which is almost always the case. But, well, I don’t mean to brag, but when it comes to hand-to-hand combat and short-ranged weapon battle, I can be at more of an advantage. I can fight; which also means I can throw a decent brass-knuckled punch.

“I’m just not in the mood to go out into a battlefield right now.” I truthfully admit, and the soles of my boots shift against the dry grounds, rubbing small rocks and dirt.

Poppy shrugs. “Well, it’s a job. And no matter how much you hate being a barista at Starbucks, you gotta keep on watching coffee drip… or you can either decide to scroll through Instagram until the next guy in line gives his order.”

“Right.” I just nod and just wait for Guy.

Guy Diamond is such a drama queen. He’s a drama queen, and an egotistical bastard, but he’s a good friend. He’s that one guy who’d keep to himself at most times but actually bother bugging you when he feels like you need a little nudge of ‘motivation’. Guy’s the worse therapist you’d ever see—but he’s a good companion to have around, really.

He used to live on the streets from what I know, with another group of homeless kids. Guy himself had proudly claimed that they called themselves ‘the sewer rats’. I didn’t ask about it further. This millionaire, Sky Toronto, the CEO of Toronto Enterprises, found little Guy stealing a pack of sour gummy worms at a gas station, and that asshole was adopted—he must have been the luckiest kid to ever exist. Guy hasn’t really elaborated about much after that, but I envied him every way I could—he grew up in an actual home, got proper education, and had no financial problems to deal with whatsoever. Poppy calls Guy spoiled whenever she feels like pissing him off.

You can see him approaching in the distance, tendrils of heat distorting his image and almost making me dizzy myself. As always, Guy’s favorite hand pistol and his trademark machete are strapped to his back—he never fights with armor. His argument was that they weighed him down, and that he was way too good to be hit anywhere by a weapon. That was probably the moment I decided that armory isn’t really worth anything in battles—because what he said was partly true, even if not completely.

His hair is still wet, despite the rather scorching weather, and his black and red vigilante-like attire over his glittered skin makes him look like Deadpool’s long lost son who escaped from a crazy ass party. Dirt-stained combat boots along with a simple chest armor pad—just in case they got a bullet flying out of nowhere, for sure. Guy likes dressing as if it were the apocalypse; some could say it already was the end of the fucking world anyways.

“Took you long enough.” I remark with a smack of my lips, and Poppy hums in agreement with an amused smile. “Have fun washing your pits?”

“I didn’t.” Guy simply replies and stops to stand right in front of us, not really bothering to sit down. We still have about ten minutes before the game operators open the portals, so we’ve got that time to actually relax and spend time talking to each other about how the world sucked before we got busy with our jobs.

“Why do you wear the same clothes everyday, Guy? Don’t you ever wash them?” Poppy asked innocently, eyeing the boy’s attire from top to bottom—she grimaces at the sight of the blood-stained blade on his machete. I can understand her resent towards the whole fighting thing—blood grosses me a little out too, at times. Guy is smart not to reply to this, and instead, takes a whiff at his clothes. I can’t help but laugh.

“Shut it. I just have many different pairs that look the same.” Guy retorts and glares at me. I wink, and he looks pissed. “And clothes has way too many varieties, if you ask me.”

“Your dignity is just as big as your fatass ego.” I mutter under my breath.

I feel a sense of accomplishment when Poppy giggles from the side. “Really, Branch?” Guy groans and gives me a painful smack on the head. I feel a very strong urge to smack him back, but I let him off this time.

That little hacker group on our trail? The one’s that trying to overthrow the Government and manipulate all living creatures? We call them the Hackers. Well, yeah, fuck creativity, who cares? It’s easy to say, I don’t sound stupid saying it.

There’s been, so far, only one time I managed to encounter a Hacker—in _Devil’s Dare_. _Devil’s Dare_ is another pretty high-paying game that I enjoy playing when I grow tired of slashing people with daggers and knives. A strategy game, I’d call it—the rules are simple, but it’s one of life or death. Basically, if you’re dumb, you die in the first round. And you can’t cry to your mommy about it, either. One wrong pointer towards the wrong culprit, and you’re head is sliced clean off with an invisible blade that just flies in out of nowhere.

I have to say, whoever programs these insane games, are fucking geniuses.

But, I digress, back to the main subject at hand. I was sitting quietly at the famous dare table, at my turn, ready to shoot someone among the strangers sitting across and beside me to oblige to my given dare. That’s when I found myself locking gazes with this one guy: this player, who seems just a few years older than my age, staring right at me like it wanted to burn holes into my head, with the most lifeless eyes I’ve ever seen.

I put a bullet through his skull before he could move, and I still don’t regret it to this day. 

The man turned out to be a guy named Alex Hedges; a master gamer long enslaved by the Hackers. His brain had been wiped clean, leaving only facts and knowledge behind, deleting memories out of existence like the purge. They’d turned him into a killing machine, and you know what’s scary? Turns out they were after me that night. I haven’t seen another one brain-dead slave since. Poor guy.

“Portal opens in three minutes.” Guy points out, and I’m actually glad he breaks that incessant train of thoughts. “Ready to head out, Branch?”

“Born ready.” I mutter under my breath as I get to my feet and wrap my fingers around the rubber grip of my dagger. Poppy stands up along with me, and my fingers slightly brush against hers. 

“I should probably get to work.” Poppy says and gives me a weak smile. “See you guys tonight? Same time, same place?”

“Same time, same place.” Guy nods and gives me a nudge on the side with his elbow. “First person to get there has to order the nachos with the spinach and cheese.”

“Easy.” Poppy remarks and turns away, her pink hair swishing against the wind. “Good luck, don’t die!”

It was a jokeish thing Poppy always says before leaving us to go slay some players—Guy finds it rather funny, and I do too. I just sometimes feel as if she means it, and my heart gets just a little bit heavy.

“You trying to stall?” Guy asks.

“No.”

“Then let’s get going.”

____________________

_Reaper’s Blood Battle_ is a crazy game. It’s safe to say you can’t see a thing out here while you fight—it’s all blood, a fucking fog, mace, and the air reeks of death. And I don’t wanna sound so psychopathic, but that’s what keeps me going.

Death. It’s a strange thing. It can be something to mourn and weep for, something that drags you down to utter despair, but at the same time, it can also be that one thing that makes you so desperate to the point where it actually _saves_ you.

I’ve experienced a lot for a kid my age. Well, I can’t dare to say it’s just me at this point. But if there’s anything I learned throughout the years, it’s that you shouldn’t let your emotions get the best of you; once you lose yourself to ‘feelings’, you’re dead.

And right now, I’m killing innocents around the world whom I’ve never even met or talked to just for the sake of my survival, and I don’t feel the slightest bit guilty. The cruel habits that has solidified within my mind feels like a snowpick through my brain.

I give the man one final twist with my dagger, which is buried to the hilt inside his flesh over his stomach. The crimson, warm, coppery-scented liquid flows out of the wound like a burst water pipe as I pull it out of his torso. His dead body seems to disintegrate into little particles and bits like microscopic pieces of dust. And then, he blinks out of existence, just disappears. Gone.

It’s probably why they call dying here a ‘glitch’. Sure seems like one.

Another man dead thanks to me. And the more I kill, the more money I can carry in my pockets. I have to remind that to myself incessantly, or else, I’ll start feeling that guilt I dread to feel deep within my soul, that would rattle my bones like some twisted, sick curse.

I’m getting poetic during a life-or-death match in the middle of a bloody battlefield, and that’s never a good thing.

“Branch, focus!” Guy calls out, and I snap out of the never-ending line of stupid thoughts. “Enemy at three o’clock!”

I quickly spin on my heels and swing my machete—I can feel the sharp blade connecting with naked flesh, and soon I sense it cutting through skin and organs and slicing through bones. It never fails to satisfy me.

_And yet, I’m still confused over how I’m supposed to feel._

“Thanks, Guy.” I call out as I throw one of my daggers—it buries its blade into a female’s head with a sickening wet thunk, and she falls immediately. Once she’s gone and away from the world, I wipe the blood off my dagger with my fingers. It smells so coppery it’s like I’m tasting it.

I dodge an axe that comes flying through the air out of nowhere—it lodges itself into a guy behind me and it’s an immediate kill. A second late and it could have been me.

Remember when I told you I’m a level ninety-seven ranking master gamer? It’s not that easy.

It’s just like those games we used to play on old computers and laptops back in the early 2010s. Whenever you enter a game, there’s this little bar above your head that shows your rank. Level one to level hundred, all the way to level hundred and fifty, you name it—it all shows. And higher the level is for a player, the more profit you earn by killing them off. I can’t count how many times I feel a bullet whizzing past my head or a knife flying towards me only to graze my hair.

One wrong move and I’ll end up with the same fate that lady who got an axe to her head.

The acrid smell of stale gunpowder envelops my nasal cavities. It’s crazy to think that just one or two centuries ago, a death would have been headline news, to see a corpse would be something that you’d suffer a lifelong trauma due to, something to seek mental help or a counselor—no longer. Thousands of players died each day, and we don’t care anymore. All you need to care for is yourself, and _just yourself._

With renewed vigor and a pump of adrenaline, I let out a guttural roar as I all on all fours. My bones move under my skin like mechanical snakes; audible cracks slice through me and I feel my feet cement into the ground. And now, I feel complete, I feel free.

I feel ready to _maul and kill_.

Oh yeah, one more thing. Did I forget to mention that I can transform into a tiger?

So, let me start over: hi, I’m Branch Woods. And I’m a meta-human.

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I could say I got this idea from a book by James Dashner.


End file.
